


no stranger to love

by shyish



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: 90s AU, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Minor Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know, Multi, Not /graphic/ descriptions of violence but there is a bit of violence for a small bit, Reincarnation AU so Jisung does die in the first two lives, in the second life, it's like two sentences but im tagging just in case, it's not like a plot point nor is it really dwelled upon, jisung pov, the first life involves, the second life is, the third life is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25288384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyish/pseuds/shyish
Summary: Jisung thinks to himself—this is where he's meant to be. In every universe that might exist, this is the only truth: the three of them belong together, three parts of the same heartbeat.Or a reincarnation AU following Jisung through three lives, each one different from the other. The only constants are two boys and the love he shares with them.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Han Jisung | Han, Bang Chan/Han Jisung | Han/Seo Changbin, Bang Chan/Seo Changbin, Han Jisung | Han/Seo Changbin
Comments: 37
Kudos: 152
Collections: STRAY KIDS BIGBANG: 2020





	1. The First Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Sun will shine upon you and the Moon will share its light with you. May you live in their radiance all the days of your life.”
> 
> Jisung’s smile outshone every night sky.

The first time Jisung’s parents took him to see the gods, he was only eight. It was a rainy day, the monsoons as unrelenting as always. When his parents woke him up, there was no light to be seen outside. Quickly but silently, they packed — food, money, something to protect them from the rain — before sitting down for a breakfast of watery gruel.

Jisung’s eyes were barely open as he tried to rub the sleep out of them. Yawning, he asked his mom, “Mama, are the gods nice?”

His mother smiled at him, her eyes wrinkled with kindness.

“Only as nice as we are to them.”

“Remember, Jisung,” his father continued. “Devote yourself to the gods. No harm will ever come to you.”

Jisung nodded eagerly with all the faith of a child. He would never forget the way his father had smiled at him then. He thought to himself that he’d pray to every god in the world if it meant seeing that smile again.

The temple was a long ways from their humble village. Under the cover of the rain and the darkness, Jisung and his parents set out on their journey. They crossed several villages, bowing at the entrance to each one before entering. A sign of respect but also a call for forgiveness.

Jisung had never been to the plains. His family lived deep inside the mountains, so everything he knew about the villages there came from stories and rumours. He’d heard tales of endless wealth and luxury, more riches than he could imagine. He’d heard that they lived in stone houses that could withstand any landslide, any earthquake. One thing he knew for sure was that they worshipped different gods; or rather, they worshipped only one god. The god of the sun.

He’d heard his father talk about the plainsmen, in harsh words and a low, angry voice.

_“They mock the Moon, those tyrants. Those fools. How dare they forget? The Sun shared its light with the Moon before it shone upon any of us.”_

Jisung didn’t think he’d much like the plains but that didn’t mean he was afraid of them. Mama and Papa were brave, dignified. They’d brought him up to be the same. Why then, had their hands started shaking as they neared the base of the mountains? Jisung didn’t want to know. When the beads of sweat trickling down their foreheads turned into a steady stream, he chose to believe it was just exhaustion.

* * *

The temple was beautiful. Jisung had never thought that buildings could be that tall or grand. The main building was elevated on a platform and the steps leading up to it were about two feet tall. It was a feat of architecture, carved out of stone with sun and moon imagery embellished everywhere.

The temple was surrounded on all four sides by a garden the size of a whole village. The most fragrant and beautiful of flowers, carefully selected and taken care of.

“Mama! What’s this one called?” Jisung asked.

“Cypress,” his mother replied, light and easy.

“And this one?”

“Carnations.”

“And this?”

Jisung’s mother smiled at him, patiently answering his questions one by one. And so, Jisung ran through the entire garden before finally reaching the staircase. His mother and father helped him up the entire way, Jisung giggling in glee. When they finally reached the top, the sight that awaited him left him agape.

The statues of two gods stood before him but more notably, they faced each other. One god stood with pride, his shoulders broad and defined. He held his hand out to the other god, fondness decorating his dimpled smile. From head to toe, the statue glowed and something told Jisung it was more than just the gold. The god’s eyes were kind but determined, looking only and only at the god beside him.

The other god was carved out of pure white marble. He was shorter but more muscular. There was a softness to him, in the way his cheeks seemed to be bursting full, the smile on his face smaller and shyer. But there was also strength. It showed in the straight line of his back, in the way his eyes dared to hold the first god’s gaze. He too was reaching out, his hand only inches from making contact.

The Sun and the Moon enjoined together for eternity. Deep inside Jisung’s heart, a seed of devotion took root. He walked wordlessly towards the two gods before kneeling at their feet. His parents watched on, silent and understanding. Before long, the temple priest appeared before them.

“Dearest child, do you wish to pray?” the priest asked.

Jisung was still kneeling and his eyes were still fixated on the gods before him.

“Child,” the priest repeated.

This time, Jisung turned towards the priest, his eyes frantic and sincere.

“I want to pray.” He gulped once before speaking again. “ Please.”

The priest walked towards him slowly. Jisung fidgeted, eager and desperate.

The priest hovered his hand over Jisung’s eyes. “Close your eyes, son.”

Jisung obeyed. The priest turned to his parents and they nodded. He placed his hand on Jisung’s head.

“I will ask you only once,” the priest declared. “Do you wish to pray to the Sun?”

Jisung frowned and looked up at the priest.

“What about the Moon?” he asked.

The priest seemed pleased. He smiled and gently pushed Jisung’s head down before continuing.

“Very well. Do you wish to pray to the Sun and the Moon?”

“I do.”

“Do you wish to devote yourselves to them?”

“I do.”

“Do you believe, in your heart of hearts, that the Sun and the Moon live within you?”

This gave Jisung some pause. The gods were beautiful, their light was almost blinding. What could he possibly offer them? He was just an eight-year-old boy, painfully human.

“I do not,” he answered. “But I want them to.”

The priest tilted Jisung’s face up by the chin. For a split second, Jisung worried that he’d said the wrong thing.

“The Sun will shine upon you and the Moon will share its light with you. May you live in their radiance all the days of your life.”

Jisung’s smile outshone every star in the sky.

* * *

Once they got back to their village, Jisung ransacked the local library. Headed and founded by the village chief’s father, it housed a modest collection of books. Jisung was happy to discover that a large number of those books were about his gods. He borrowed two of them — ‘The History of the Sun’ and ‘The Moon Was Once Human’ — and finished reading them that very night. The next day, he borrowed two more. With every book he read, Jisung’s obsession grew.

Obsession. That’s what he had felt then, in the temple on his knees. The all-consuming need to find out everything about the two gods. To know them — really, really know them — inside and out.

And so he read. He read about the Sun, how he had been God’s favourite. He read about the battles he’d won, the miracles he’d performed. The books had painted him as a warrior, fit to rule the world. Jisung wondered if that was how the Sun had wanted to be remembered. A nameless, would-be king.

The books about the Moon were fewer in number but Jisung liked them the best. Maybe it was because the Moon hadn’t always been a god. Before, he had been a human, a human named Changbin. Changbin’s father had been a priest, not just any priest but the head priest of the largest temple dedicated to the Sun. The same temple Jisung had visited. Jisung took it as a sign of fate.

He burned through every book that was even remotely related to them and when the village library ran out, he asked the merchants to bring him some more. He learned the difference between the hills and the plains.

Books about the Moon, more often than not, were written by the hillsmen. They called him Changbin, brother, moonlight. They wrote about the Sun and sometimes they called him Chan. Their devotion was as fond as it was unwavering. The people of the plains wrote about the Sun but they called him by no other name. There was no mention of the Moon, no space for the love shared between the two. There was only conquest and victory. There was awe in the way they spoke about the Sun, but there was also fear. Jisung pitied them.

When he was ten, Jisung read ‘ _Iktara_ ’ for the first time. A book relating the lives of Chan and Changbin, written entirely in verse, it soon became his favourite. Some of its passages would haunt him his whole life.

_Changbin looked at the Sun,_  
_his face as if in mourning._  
_“You have no name_  
_for me to call you by.”_  
_The Sun smiled and his light grew,_  
_his warmth engulfing the boy._  
_“Pick a name then. If it is you_  
_who is calling, I will answer to anything.”_

The author was anonymous, lost and unknown to history. Still, Jisung knew that his words were true. He felt it deep in his bones, the sincerity with which the book had been written. As if it were a plea to the world — begging it to remember, praying that this story would not be erased and forgotten.

* * *

At the age of twelve, Jisung built his first altar from scratch. It was a humble little thing, soft cloth covering a wooden box. At the centre, he placed his copy of ‘ _Iktara_ ’. To the left was a clay model of the sun, hand-painted and decorated with wild daisies. To the right was a crescent moon, carved out of wood. A lone honeysuckle rested on its curve. Everyday he would pick a fresh flower for the altar and pray in silence. Sometimes, his prayers would last as long as an hour. When his friends asked him how he could pray for so long, he would just smile.

“They are my gods. I could never run out of things to say.”

So this was how Jisung would spend his days. He’d wake up at the crack of dawn and pray before washing himself and sitting down for breakfast. He’d go to school from eight to two and then play with his friends until it was evening. After that, he’d come back home. Stopping to bow down at his altar just once, he’d get started on any homework for the day before helping his mother with dinner.

At night, before going to sleep, he’d sit in front of his altar, scrawny legs tucked neatly under him. This was Jisung’s favourite time of the day. The people around him seemed to think praying was hard. He couldn’t understand why. Most of his friends only prayed to the gods when they needed help, Jisung knew this and he did not judge. His prayers were a lot different though.

To Jisung, praying was sacred but also simple. He loved his gods and in his heart, he knew they loved him too. He never had anything special to tell them but that didn’t matter. He’d tell them about his day, what he learned in class, what games he played with his friends and who won. He would ask them if they’ve been doing well, whether or not they’d had a good day. At the end, he would reiterate his faith and his devotion and try to convey, in all the words he could muster, just how much they meant to him. Everyday he would end his prayer with a smile on his face.

“May the Sun shine upon me. May the Moon share its sacred light with me. May I live in the shelter of your radiance all my life.”

* * *

Three years after he’d first built it, somebody destroyed Jisung’s altar. Technically, it was multiple somebodys.

Resources in the plains were dwindling. More and more plainsmen had started encroaching upon the hills. They cut down trees and stole crops, raiding village after village. They preached about the Sun while scorning the Moon, uttering his name with disgust and distaste. Jisung understood his father’s anger now. In the hills, Changbin’s name was something to be revered. It was spoken in soft hushes of awe and delight, inserted into confessions of love, cried out during moments of relief. These brutish invaders had turned it into a thing of hate.

Jisung would rebuild the altar and he’d do so with spite. The plainsmen had come and gone, leaving destruction in their wake. But his village still lived and so did his people, for they were of the hills and the hills could not be crushed so easily.

Jisung would rebuild the altar. This time, it would be bigger, grander. The small table would be replaced by a stone slab that stood half as tall as Jisung. The clay sun had fallen down and broken into pieces. The crescent moon had been cut in half by their swords. No worries, Jisung would make them again.

And so he did. He bought clay and moulded it into a striking resemblance of Chan. He painstakingly added as many details as he could, using tiny shards of glass or chipped wood, anything that was sharp enough. When he was done with that, he went out and got himself a solid block of wood. He sat down in front of his new still-being-built altar and started carving out Changbin’s face and body. When the sun started setting, he ignored it. When his mom called him to the table for dinner, he ignored it. When his dad pointedly blew out all the candles in their house, he ignored it and went outside. For hours at end, he carved.

Only when his fingers started shaking and his grip on his knife loosened did he decide to call it a day. The next morning, when he went to school, the bags under his eyes were dark and pronounced. His friends teased him and the teacher asked him if everything was alright. Jisung ignored them all.

It took him several days and many sleepless nights, but he finally finished the model. His altar, however, was still incomplete. As soon as he was done carving, Jisung emptied out his savings. Not that he had a lot but, with a bit of haggling, he was hoping it’d be enough. He counted all his money: 540 clé. It would have to be enough.

The next day, he went to the weekly bazaar, a small but heavy pouch of coins in hand. Walking up to merchant selling handlooms, he asked what he could get for 540 clé. The old man spread out several of his goods on the floor in front of Jisung. They were nice enough but his gods deserved better. Jisung looked around the merchant's stall. Something in the back caught his eye.

"What about that one?"

The merchant turned around to see what Jisung was pointing at. A small pause and then a burst of laughter.

"That one isn't for sale. It's barely worth looking at."

Jisung frowned. Even from the front of the stall, he could see the bright red of the cloth. He'd never seen that kind of red before.

"Am I not your customer? Let me decide what it is and is not worth."

The man scoffed but complied. He pushed the other looms to the side and unfurled the cloth onto the carpeted floor. Jisung gasped.

"It's beautiful."

Despite the several cobwebs clinging to it, Jisung knew his eyes had been right. He'd never seen a cloth so pigmented, the richness of the red rivalling that of blood. What was more eye-catching, however, was the embroidery work.

The maker must have been blessed by the gods themselves. Tiny, delicate, yellow flowers bordered the entire cloth; each flower connected to the next by an impossibly fine thread. At each corner, there was a neatly embroidered sun and moon, bound together by the same yellow thread. Perfect, it was perfect.

Jisung looked up at the merchant, eyes shining.

"How much for this one?"

"A thousand clé."

"What? You just said it was worth nothing."

"And you advised me that I should let the customer decide. It seems that my customer thinks this priceless."

Jisung thought to temper the anger rising inside of him but that thought only lasted a second.

"Thief! You were letting this rot in the back!"

The merchant shrugged.

"I tried to sell it for years. Went from one village to the village. Nobody wanted it. It's the Moon."

Jisung stilled. He spoke without yelling this time, his voice low and deep.

"What's wrong with the Moon?"

"You don't know?" The merchant smiled cruelly. "The Moon is cursed. As are all his devotees. The Sun lost all his light because of him. So he killed himself. Poor sod. Bad luck follows him wherever he goes."

Jisung clenched his fist and tried to calm himself. He may have had his father's temper but he did not have his father's strength.

"You're from the plains, aren't you?"

"I am. What's it to you?"

Jisung grit his teeth, slightly grinding his jaw.

"You know nothing about the Moon."

The merchant laughed, cold and mocking.

"Ah sorry, my bad. I forgot you hillsmen worship him. Must be out of pity. Guy chased after his own death, literally sucking up to the Sun."

Jisung didn’t know how or when but his fist was now in contact with the merchant's face.

It made contact with his face again.

And again.

And again.

Before long, the entire market was trying to separate the two. Jisung didn’t know how many times he must have hit the merchant. He didn’t bother counting. When he felt like he’d done enough damage, he grabbed the ream of cloth and made a run for it.

Word would travel quick and soon, the entire village would have heard of what had happened. His friends would praise him. His teacher would tease him. His mother would give him an earful. His father would wait until all of them were done before patting him on the head, his quiet approval resonating the loudest. The red cloth proudly became a part of Jisung’s altar. He washed it every other week.

* * *

Jisung didn’t know when but at some point, he stopped thinking of the plainsmen as just people. He thought of them as invaders, trespassers, murderers. Decade after decade, the plains and the hills had lived in peace. The animosity between them existent but quiet.

On paper, the plains were more prosperous. They were richer, in knowledge and in power. Their tools were more efficient, more complex. The common language they once shared had evolved into something more sophisticated in the plains, something more befitting “modern” sensibilities. In comparison, the hills felt primitive at best, barbaric at worst. The hillsmen did not mind this. If they did, they never cared to show it. Their only grudge against the plainsmen was the way they treated the Moon.

Years ago, when he was about nine years old, Jisung had asked his father a question. It had been a full moon night, the entire village readying itself for sleep.

“Papa?”

“Hmm?”

“The plainsmen. Why do they hate the Moon?”

His father had sighed, his shoulders drooping down just a little. He’d turned to face Jisung, lightly caressing his son’s cheek before answering.

“They don’t hate him, son. For the plains, brother Changbin isn’t important enough to hate. For them, he is nothing at all.”

“Why?”

His father had looked at him long and hard. There had been kindness in his eyes but there had also been pain.

“In their eyes, he’s just a human. A human who tried to touch the Sun and burned himself. They think him foolish, that he dug his own grave.”

“But…” Jisung’s voice had been small, hesitant. “The Sun loved the Moon. Didn’t he? Is that not true?”

A minute or two had passed by before his father had finally answered.

“All we have are words, Jisung. Words that tell us the Sun existed, telling us how he lived and what he did. Words claiming he had a lover and that he tried to make that lover into a god. Words that say that lover was brother Changbin.

Or at least, those are the words that I know. The plains seem to know different ones. Who’s to say which words are true? Sure, truth always matters but when it comes to things like the gods and the stars, what really matters is you.”

Jisung had shaken his head, confused by it all. “Papa, I don’t understand.”

His father had laughed at him, ruffling his hair.

“The Sun loved the Moon, Jisung. Is that true to you?”

Jisung had nodded immediately, round eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. His father had nodded back.

“Then that’s all that matters.”

All at once, Jisung had understood. He’d locked his father’s words deep inside his heart. They swam inside of him along with many others. Sometimes, when the world was quiet and Jisung’s mind could run free, words were all he was.

* * *

When the plainsmen came, they took everything. The plains had not always been so cruel but a recent change in leadership had resulted in a most brutal campaign against the Moon and his worshippers. No hill was spared, no hill-dweller shown mercy. Jisung’s village was one of the first that tried to fight back. A few run-aways from the villages ahead had come to warn them. Some families had chosen to flee but most had decided to stand their ground.

When the plainsmen came, they took everything. They cut down crops and people alike. Their arrows embedded themselves into the trunks of trees and the torsos of villagers. Jisung, dagger in hand, repeated his father’s instructions to himself.

_Stab to kill. It’s either their life or yours. If you don’t think you can kill, run. And never look back._

Jisung had thought he could kill. Hand on his heart he’d really thought he could do it. But when a horseman showed up in front of him, his hand holding the dagger went slack. He slashed at the horse, hoping to disorient. It worked and the horseman fell. As Jisung ran, he heard someone crying out followed by the thud of a body falling down. Distantly, Jisung knew the voice had been his mother’s.

_I mean it, son. Don’t stop running._

He ran and he ran and he ran and he ran. He had almost made it outside the village when he felt his entire body come to a halt. He fell down face first, a bright pain blooming near his ribs. He looked down—it was an arrow. The very next second, he stood back up and ran again. The arrow lay on the ground, pulled out and abandoned.

It hurt. The entire run down the hill, it hurt. He could think of nothing else. The sweat that ran down his body was cold, his mind silent and numb. He could feel himself but the tears meant nothing to him. The plainsmen had taken everything, even his words. All that was left was pain.

Jisung did not stop running. Some part of him wondered if he would ever stop. But when he found himself in front of the temple, his feet finally came to a rest. Immediately, he puked, his adrenaline now dead. Everything came crashing down on him then. He fell to his knees, shivering.

Still, he forced himself to stand and walk through the temple gardens. He couldn’t help but sway, his legs too weak to carry him straight. Somehow, he made it to the staircase. From there, he crawled all the way up, each step more agonising than the one before it. When he reached the top, his body gave out and he fell again.

Even then he forced himself to move. He dragged himself to the center of the room so he could be in the presence of his gods one last time. With much difficulty, he craned his neck up so he could see them.

Jisung laughed, the sound all bloody and bitter. It seemed that the plainsmen had spared nothing in their wake. The statue of Changbin was broken, chunks of his face and body were missing. When a surge of blood made it up to his throat and started gushing out of his mouth, Jisung closed his eyes.

“The gods have mercy on my soul,” he prayed. “Let this not be the end. Give me one more chance. Let me know you better, love you deeper. Let me pray to you for just a little while longer.”

Jisung was nineteen when he died. He bled out on the floor in front of his gods, the remnants of a prayer on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a thing for themes of religion in love, can you tell? Also, I thought people might wonder about this when reading so I'll just clarify it here: none of them hold any memories of the past lives. Each life is new and separate from the others.


	2. The Second Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like a butterfly, his love moulted; a green and jittery thing turned into something sure and real. Metamorphosis, Jisung learned, felt more like decay than it did rebirth.

Jisung was seventeen and fresh out of high school. It was his first day in college and he was admittedly nervous but also hopeful. A new beginning, a fresh start—he couldn’t wait to see what lay in store for him. As he sat down for his very first class, ‘Literature in a Historical Context’, he wondered how much he would change over the next three years. Would he recognize himself when all was said and done?

That was when he saw him.

Confident but just a bit shy, Chan greeted all the students with a smile and a wave of his hand. He had dark brown hair, two dimples, and was of average height. He looked at the students like he’d known them all his life.

He introduced himself, stuttering in between and laughing at his own awkwardness. He asked the entire class to introduce themselves, sitting at the edge of his table as everyone took their turn, smile still in place. He hadn’t given them any sort of template for their introductions and Jisung kind of wished he had.

“Um, I’m Han Jisung. I write, I guess.”

“Oh, wonderful! What do you write about?” Chan sounded sincere, like he was genuinely curious.

Jisung felt a blush creeping up his neck. “It’s nothing honestly. Just whiny, sappy nonsense.”

Chan frowned at that, tilting his head to the side as he thought something over.

“You know, our coursework for this semester—I’ll go over the syllabus in detail later—but one of the things we’ll be looking at this time around is the Romantic era. A lot of people assume that they wrote about love but really they wrote about the world in a very idealistic, impassioned manner.” He paused before continuing, “They romanticised things if you will.”

Until then, Chan had been speaking to the entire class but for the last part of his little speech, he turned to look at Jisung.

“What I’m trying to say is, they wrote whiny, sappy nonsense. Turns out, people really care about whiny, sappy nonsense. Humans are whiny, sappy, nonsense creatures.” His smile was brilliant and blinding. “I hope that over time you would let me become privy to your nonsense, Mr. Han. God knows I could never have enough of it.”

Jisung sat down, his cheeks warm and rosy.

* * *

Two days after that, Jisung met Changbin. He was one of the shorter professors in college but somehow, his presence was the strongest. His brown hair looked soft and was tucked under a surprisingly cute beret. On his table, there rested a small radio. Jisung did not know what to think of him.

“Morning, class. I’m Mr. Seo Changbin,” he started. “I’ll be teaching you Forms and Performances of Creative Writing. And I don’t really do the whole introduction thing so you can stop worrying about that.”

A low rumble of nervous, relieved laughter filled the room.

“The nature of my subject is such that you’ll be given a lot of assignments, usually written, spread out over the semester. Some of these assignments you’re gonna have to read out, so prepare yourselves.”

Jisung cringed with his whole body at that.

“The reason I don’t do the whole introduce-yourself-to-the-class shtick is,”—at this part, he decided to sit on top of his table and Jisung couldn’t help but notice that his feet didn’t touch the ground—“Writing, yeah? Creative writing, in particular. It tells you a lot about a person. You can sit here and tell me about yourself all day—what kind of movies you like to watch, the kind of books you like read, what your favorite color is and all that. But is knowing someone’s preferences the same as knowing them?”

The classroom was quiet but Jisung knew, could _feel_ that everyone was listening. Changbin probably could too.

“Personally, I don’t think so. The stuff you write though? The kind of words you use, the kind of stories you choose to tell, _that_ says a lot about a person. So I like to get to know my students through their writing.” He smiled, equal parts sweet and smug. “So! No lagging behind. Got it?”

By the end of that class, Jisung was obsessed with him.

* * *

In his first year of college, Jisung stumbled in and out of things. He tried out different clubs and hobbies, as if they were clothes, to see which ones fit best. He made friends and then he unmade them, as he tried to figure out what worked and what didn’t. The entire time, the two professors occupied a space in his heart and in his thoughts.

It didn’t take him long to show Chan his poems, clumsy as they were. Turns out, Chan hadn’t been lying about liking whiny, sappy nonsense. Jisung had never received so much praise from an adult in his life. Changbin was just as appreciative of his work. Within the first month, he knew their office hours (and Changbin’s pager number) by heart.

Over time, he learned more about the two professors. Chan was thirty-two and came from a family of Ivy League graduates. He’d been the only exception but his parents didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t have a pager and wasn’t good with technology in general; he knew how to use his walkman and for him, that was enough. His favorite alcoholic drink was Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill Wine. Jisung had never tried it but according to Chan, it was “pink, fuzzy, and disgusting”. He liked flowers, white carnations being his favorite.

Changbin, thirty-one, was more of a cassette man himself. He wasn’t picky about the kind of music he listened to—Sonic Youth to Dolly Parton, he collected them all. He also fancied himself as a “bit of a posterity freak” and took pride in his photo albums, all fifteen of them. His mini radio was named ‘Robert’; it was his only lasting connection to his father.

Puppy love. That’s what it was. Embarrassing but what could Jisung do? He tried his best to nip things in the bud while still being kind to his own heart. However, he also wanted to be honest—to let his little hummingbird heart flutter its wings in the palm of their hands. He wanted to trust them with the softness of his love, the peach blossom petals that accompanied his crush. He wanted to be known, to bare his soul and feel the weight of their kindness on it.

And so he wrote. Poems about chasing after honey, lyrics about lovers invisible to the eye, stories about a boy who knows where home is but not how to get there. He wrote all this and more. He wrote until the pulsing, glowing thing in his heart turned into something solid and warm. Like a butterfly, his love moulted; a green and jittery thing turned into something sure and real. Metamorphosis, Jisung learned, felt more like decay than it did rebirth.

* * *

_I may not know what love is_  
_But I know why people try_  
_To define it in terms of nectar_  
_Honey and golden sunlight_

_I still don’t know what love is_  
_But I think I do know why_  
_Lives and minds were lost for it_  
_And wise men were always defied_

_I’ll never know what love is_  
_But I’ve realised this at least_  
_You keep me whole and breathing_  
_A tender and aching heartbeat_

“You know,” Changbin said as he sighed. “This will always be my favorite work of yours. I teared up when I first read it.”

Jisung chuckled. When he spoke, there was a teasing lilt to his voice. “The first work I ever showed you was your favorite? Man, I must’ve really dropped the ball.”

Changbin frowned at him and Jisung laughed. As Changbin went back to reading Jisung’s ever growing portfolio, Jisung wondered when and how things had become like this. Him, languid and loose, comfortably lying down on Changbin and Chan’s couch. Changbin and Chan, whom he’d loved since the beginning of college. Changbin and Chan who were (sort of) married to each other.

It had come as quite a shock to Jisung, on a fine Sunday afternoon, some time in his second semester. Chan had invited him over to his house to discuss a short story that Jisung had been working on the past few months.

“Everything feels so formal in my office,” Chan had said, a pleasant smile on his face. “It’d be so much better if we could both relax and be comfortable, right?”

Truly, Jisung had thought, who was he to disagree?

The man who’d opened the door however, had not been Chan but Changbin. Jisung had simply stood there, blinking and confused.

“Professor Changbin?” he’d questioned.

“Hey there, Han.” Professor Changbin had sounded a bit restrained, nervous even.

Chan had shown up then, black polka-dot apron tied around his waist. Looking between the two of them, he’d said, “I think we can have this conversation sitting down.”

“Huh,” Jisung had replied, like an idiot.

His professors had laughed at that. Taking pity on him, Chan had pulled him in and sat him down on their living room couch.

“Your professor Changbin and I are married, Jisung,” he had explained.

“Isn’t that illegal?” Jisung had bitten his tongue right after he’d said it.

“Correction,” Chan had replied. “We’re as married as two men can be, given the circumstances.” A beat of silence later, he’d continued, “Is that going to be a problem?”

“What? No!” Jisung had said in a hurry. “No, not at all...I’m just, processing.”

Surprisingly, Jisung hadn’t been too upset by the news. He’d simply accepted it. Swallowed it down like medicine, the same way he’d swallowed his feelings.

Chan and Changbin would go on to tell him about the ceremony — a simple reading of vows with only one family member present (Chan’s mom). All the other guests had been close friends, most of whom were queer themselves. Obviously, there was no need for an officiant but Chan’s best friend, Brian, had insisted anyway. Nobody at college knew—their neighbours cared more about paying rent than they did about each other’s business —and evidently, they’d given it a lot of thought before deciding to let Jisung know. He'd felt more honoured than anything else.

It had been a year since he’d found out. How time seemed to fly.

“Changbin honey,” Chan called out from the kitchen. “If you’re done crying over Jisung’s writing, could you help me set the table?” Chan’s voice, though distant and faint, still sounded fond.

As Changbin left to set the table — and steal a kiss or five — Jisung curled into himself. During the first few house visits, he’d offered to help around but the two men had always insisted that he just sit back and watch. After a while, Jisung had given in.

He’d gotten used to it by now, the laziness of his body, the haziness of his thoughts. Every time he entered their house, he could feel his mind and body turn into putty, as if to match his heart.

Apparently, they’d gotten used to him too. Initially, he would only come over to discuss his work. Somewhere along the line, the couple started inviting him just for his company. Today’s lunch was one such occasion.

As they all sat around the dinner table, Jisung’s mouth blurted something out before his mind could stop it.

“Are we like, friends?”

This seemed to give his professors pause. Chan was the first to reply.

“I suppose so. But you know—and I hope you don’t take offence to this but—you’re more like a baby, Jisung.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well—” Chan was interrupted by Changbin who was doubled over with laughter. “Honey, you’re upsetting him.” Changbin laughed even louder at that.

“I’m _not_ a baby!” Jisung insisted. “What does that even mean? And even if I was, what are you trying to say?” Jisung could feel himself making lesser and lesser sense with every word that he said. “You’d never make friends with a baby? Now that’s just low.”

Even Chan seemed to find this funny now. His laughter was soft where Changbin’s was teasing but Jisung pouted anyway.

“Jisung,” Chan tried to explain, “Would you call a three-year-old your friend?”

“Oh so that’s what it is? You think I’m a three-year-old?” Jisung replied.

Chan smiled at him, a certain softness in his eyes. Jisung felt like a young girl, blushing at everything her lover dearest does.

“Han, you child, stop pouting.” Changbin seemed to have recovered from his laughing fit. “It’s not a bad thing. You’re adorable! Young and hopeful. We can’t wait to see you grow. Into yourself _and_ your writing.”

“...Are you calling me your son?” Jisung asked, triggering another round of laughter from the two men.

“No! Jisung, please—” Chan wiped a tear from his eye as he spoke. “You’re not our son. You’re just a baby. Our baby. There’s a difference.”

Jisung frowned, shaking his head. “You guys are weird.”

Changbin grinned at him, smug and proud. “And you love us for it.”

Jisung made a show of rolling his eyes before going back to his food. He was too afraid to respond to Changbin’s taunt, could feel the stutter on the tip of his tongue. Those words had hit far too close to home.

The rest of the lunch went as usual; conversation was easy, fluid and unhurried. Jisung’s pulse was the exact opposite. He felt his heartbeat falter—a young fawn still unsure on its feet—and sighed to himself. Tender and aching, tender and aching indeed.

* * *

Jisung was trying very hard not to cry. It had been a long day. Three years ago, when he’d first entered college, he’d imagined himself here like this — graduation cap on his head, college diploma in his hand. In some ways his imagination had been correct, in others it had been a bit different.

That seventeen-year-old freshman could not have prepared himself for the person he was going to become. The Jisung that went on stage to accept his degree had seen so much in the past three years. He’d met so many people and learned so many things. The books and poems he’d read in college had changed him as a person and as a writer. Some parts though had stayed the same.

His writing was still whiny, sappy nonsense — if anything, it had become sappier — but he’d coaxed himself into appreciating it for what it was. His hunger — for growth, for knowledge, for love — still drove him to do more, to become more; he read and he read and he wrote and he wrote, his entire soul reaching out for something he could not see. He still loved Changbin and Chan. The two of them still occupied most of his thoughts and inspired most of his poems. His heart still felt like a young maiden’s in their presence, unsteady and easily ruffled.

All in all, Jisung felt like he was mourning. What, exactly, he did not know. He was happy to graduate, was excited to see where life would take him next. But he wished that he could slow down, stop time even if it was for just one second. He wanted to hold the younger him close and tell him that he’d done well, that when all was said and done there’d be very little that he’d regret.

“Han.” A familiar voice called out to him. Jisung realised this was when he’d break.

He turned around to face Changbin. A bit further back, he could see Chan walking towards them. They were both smiling, their pride loud and evident. Jisung felt the tears build up.

“You did it.” The way Changbin was looking at him, you’d think he’d just saved the world. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Professor, please,” Jisung pleaded.

Changbin shook his head, his smile falling just a bit. “Not your professor, anymore. From now on, call me Changbin.”

“Jisung!” — Chan had finally arrived — “God, you’ve grown so much,” he said, pulling Jisung into a tight hug.

Jisung let out a laugh; it came out weak and wobbly. “You sound like you haven’t seen me in years.”

Chan hugged him even tighter. “Oh hush! I’m just proud. Really really proud.”

Jisung gulped, the lump in his throat now bigger and more painful.

“I have to breathe, Professor,” he tried to joke.

Finally, Chan let go of him. Jisung tried to get a hold of his emotions but to no avail. Chan, apparently, wasn’t finished. He cupped Jisung’s face with both his hands, as gently as one would a dandelion.

“I’ll always be proud of you,” he said. “Always, okay?”

A few tears escaped Jisung’s eyes. He wiped them away furiously as he spoke.

“I’m not dying or anything so stop saying stuff like that.”—the tears just weren’t stopping—“I’m going to be right here. You’re going to be right here. Nothing’s going to change.” He sniffled, the words sounding empty even to himself.

“Please tell me nothing’s going to change,” he cried.

Changbin lightly smacked Chan on the shoulder. “Way to go, genius. Made the kid cry.”

He hugged Jisung, softly patting the back of his head.

“We’re not going anywhere, Han,” Changbin said, voice as soft as his hands. “Chan’s just being a sap. Ignore him.”

Jisung sniffled and trembled in Changbin’s arms, not holding back any longer. He felt a bit stupid, crying like this but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. So he’s emotional, sue him. It’s graduation day.

“God I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” Jisung spoke through his tears. “I’m only saying this right now because I’m extremely emotionally compromised and I don’t ever want to hear either of you talk about this ever again, okay?”

The two men nodded, a bit confused. Jisung took in a long, deep breath.

“After I graduate, I— Oh god.” He hid his face behind Changbin’s brown blazer before continuing. “Will I still be your baby?”

He flinched preemptively, waiting for them to laugh. The laughter never came. Instead, he felt a hand ruffle through his hair, the touch light and familiar.

Chan’s voice rang loud and clear in Jisung’s head when he said, “Always.”

Jisung cried for another fifteen minutes. Chan and Changbin stayed with him the whole time, consoling him like you would a child. Later, Jisung would wonder how the three of them had looked to the people around them. He’d like to think that they had looked right; as if it was only natural that they be together. Wishful thinking but at this point, he had earned it.

* * *

Not a lot of people knew this but Jisung didn’t really have the best relationship with his parents. After graduating college, he cut off all ties with them, opting to live in an apartment and pay his own bills. Changbin and Chan had offered to let him stay with them but he didn’t want to be a bother. Plus, he genuinely didn’t think he could survive being around them twenty-four-seven, all year round.

And so, he got his own place, a small one-bedroom apartment in a not-too-shady part of town. He bought himself some furniture—a couch, a table, a few chairs—the bare minimum and mostly secondhand. After much thought and discussion with his professors (he still called them that), he decided to go without a bed frame so that he could buy a particularly expensive (but soft!) queen-sized mattress. Chan and Changbin gifted him a few essentials: a kitchenware set and some cleaning supplies. They even got him a small plant.

_“Is it weed?”_

_“You wish, Han. You wish.”_

He also put up some posters and picture frames on the walls—a collection that grown over his time in college. A Calvin Klein poster here, a Matchbox Twenty there, a stupid artsy fartsy attempt at a portrait of Jisung by his college roommate smack dab on the wall facing his mattress.

All in all, Jisung liked his apartment, he really did. It just got a bit lonely at times. He stayed in touch with his professors and even some of his college friends — Hyunjin (the roommate), Seungmin (same major), and Felix (drunk made out with him at a party before becoming fast friends) — and would call them every other week. But still, it wasn’t the same.

A year after moving in, he happened to meet Minho at the nearby coffee shop. Minho was a ballet dancer, pretty and lithe. He also made for good company, kind but snarky in all the right ways. Jisung liked having him around.

A few months into their friendship, Jisung realised that it wasn’t just Minho’s company that he liked, it was Minho himself. The realisation startled him. His feelings for Chan and Changbin were still loud and true but his affection towards Minho wasn’t any less real. After spending many a sleepless night obsessing over the matter, Jisung decided to throw caution to the wind and just confess — in true Jisung fashion of course.

“Minho.” Jisung winced internally. That had come out way more seriously than he’d intended to.

Mino was sitting on Jisung’s living room sofa, flipping through some magazine. He turned to look at him, eyebrows slightly pinched in concern.

“Jisung?” he asked.

“Um,” — This must be Jisung’s worst decision yet — “How about...Like, what if—”

“...What if?”

“Like, let’s say you like someone,” Jisung started, hoping that he’d start making sense somewhere along the way. “But you love other people too. And it’s different, the things you feel for this person is different from what you feel for the other two but like, you know you like him. You like him a lot. You just, also have been in love with these other two people for as long as you could remember? And you don’t think that’s going to magically stop overnight but like you really really like this guy and you want him to know that too but you’re afraid he’ll feel like he’s being cheated on or something and—”

“Jisung,” Minho interrupted, “is this about your professors?”

“Is this about my what?”

“Your professors, Jisung. The ones you talk to over the phone every weekend, looking like an overcooked tomato.”

Jisung opened his mouth before closing it, not knowing how to respond. Minho sighed, looking tired but also a bit pitying.

“What, you thought I wouldn’t notice? I'm not stupid, Ji. Who _wouldn’t_ notice? You get all shy and giggly when you talk to them, like one of those Enid Blyton girls. The ones who go to boarding school, all small and British.”

“Oh shut up, I’m not that bad.” Jisung’s ears felt like they were going to melt right off his head.

“Oh sure,” Minho said. “Sure! If that’s what helps you sleep at night. I’ll pretend the way you say ‘Professor’ doesn’t sound borderline intimate. Anything for you, dear friend.”

For a while, Jisung didn’t say anything. Then he asked, “Is it really that obvious?”

Minho smiled at him, a tinge of pity mixed in with amusement. “Kind of.”

Jisung slumped down on the sofa next to Minho. Minho put his arm around him, giving him a little pat.

“It’s okay, Ji,” he said. “I’ve known for quite some time now. Felt really stupid at first, falling for some idiot with professor issues.”

Jisung looked at him, the corners of his mouth turned down. “I’m sorry I’m like th—”

“No no,” Minho interrupted, “You don’t have to be sorry. You like me too, right?”

Jisung nodded, earning him a small smile.

“That’s all that matters then. I like you and you like me. As for your professors...well, aren’t the kids raving over that poly-something thing nowadays?”

“Like, polyamory?”

“Yeah, yeah. Polyamory. I mean, we’re already gay. Might as well go full freak mode right?”

Minho pulled Jisung closer to him as he said this; Jisung rested his head on Minho’s shoulder before looking up at him. Minho held his gaze, his eyes clear and trying very hard not to waver.

“Thank you,” Jisung said. He hoped Minho could feel that he meant it.

Minho nodded. “We’ll figure this out. So don’t worry too much.” He smiled, lightly nuzzling his cheek against Jisung’s hair.

Minho stayed over that night, the two of them falling asleep on Jisung’s couch. It would be the first night among many.

* * *

Sometimes, Jisung would have a bad day. He couldn’t write no matter how hard he tried and all his past failures would come back to haunt him. Today, it seemed, was a particularly bad day.

“You should have dated somebody else,” Jisung said.

It was early in the morning. Minho was making himself some eggs in the kitchen while Jisung sat in the living room, trying to write. It had been about six months into their relationship.

“Bit early in the day to start airing out our regrets, don’t you think?” Minho replied, a certain sharpness in his voice.

“I’m serious.” And he was. “You deserve better.”

Minho’s handling of the pan got rougher as he spoke. “And who are you to decide that?”

“Somebody with common sense? Minho, walk outside and pick a random man on the street. I’m willing to bet everything I have that he’ll treat you better than I ever could.”

Minho sighed as he turned the stove off and put the pan to the side. “Is this about your professors again?”

“You can’t possibly be okay with this.” The thought had been nagging at Jisung ever since they’d started dating. “Your boyfriend is in love with two other men. What part of this seems fair to you?” He couldn’t hold it in any longer.

Minho stood in front of him now. The bags under his eyes looked more pronounced than ever.

“The part where he loves me too, Jisung.”

Jisung didn’t know what to say. Minho continued.

“Do you love me?” Jisung nodded in reply. “Are you sure?”

“I am.” And he was.

“Then isn’t that enough?” Minho’s voice cracked in the middle. “Do I have to want more? Why can’t this be enough?”

Jisung knew he had messed up. “I am so sorry.” He reached out and held Minho’s hands, wishing he could take it all back. “I am so, so sorry.”

Minho finally sat down, leaning into Jisung. “Look, I’m not asking to be the love of your life. All I ask is that you love me and you do. I’m happy with this, I really am. Why can’t you believe me?”

Jisung put his arm around Minho, rubbing the side of his arm. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I believe you.” He cupped Minho’s face, kissing him on the nose. “I’ll be better, I promise.”

They stayed like that for a few more minutes before Minho went back to the kitchen. Jisung closed his book, done with writing for the day. Minho’s words would ring in his head all day.

* * *

“Are you excited?”

Jisung felt his breath, the way it shook as it went in and out of his lungs.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he said.

Hyunjin laughed, adjusting Jisung’s tie. “Tell me about it. Han Jisung, the first of us to get married. Who would have thought?”

 _Certainly not me_ , Jisung thought. It’d been about ten years since he and Minho had started dating. Somewhere along the way, they’d ditched Jisung’s apartment and moved to a better part of town, living together for the past seven years. The fact that they were finally getting married felt unreal but Jisung knew this wedding had been long in the making.

_“I’ve been thinking,” Minho said in that tone of his._

_“Thinking?” Jisung asked._

_Minho looked him straight in the eye, the corners of his mouth just slightly turned up._

_“We should get married on our tenth anniversary.”_

_Jisung blinked at him. He looked down at his Sunday crossword and then looked back up again._

_“Do you think about this a lot?”_

_“The tenth anniversary thing or the us-getting-married thing?” The smile that played on Minho’s lips was equal parts sweet and mischievous. Jisung had become quite fond of it._

_“Both,” he said._

_Minho was in **their** kitchen, toasting bread on **their** pan, on top of **their** stove, drinking orange juice from one of **their** glasses. The familiarity of the sight grounded Jisung._

_“The getting married thing I suppose I’ve thought about before,” Minho replied. “Not a lot, just here and there you know, every now and then. Like some sort of brain teaser.” He sat next to Jisung at their dinner table, toast and juice in hand. “The tenth anniversary thing I thought of just now. Why? Does it not please you?”_

_“No no, I think it’s great. Sounds fantastic, actually.”_

_“Good,” Minho said, kissing him. “It’s decided then.”_

_Jisung smiled at him, leaning in for another kiss. “Good.”_

As always, time had changed a lot while also changing nothing at all. The feelings Minho and Jisung held for each other had matured; their once faltering hearts were now steady, _thump thump thump_ ing to the same rhythm and beat.

Money came easier than it used to ten years ago. Jisung had gotten his work published in multiple literary magazines and had even scored himself a book deal; a collection of his poetry, “Metamorphosis: A Story of Honey and Decay” would be released a month after their wedding. Minho himself had worked his way up to _primo ballerina_ in his dance company before retiring two years ago, at the age of 31. He hoped to open his own coaching centre and had been saving up for a while now.

Jisung still loved Chan and Changbin. They were still in touch and had talked him through thick and thin, right alongside Minho. He didn’t think this would ever change. At times, he found himself wishing that it would. 

He and Minho had talked about it enough times for it to be a non-issue but the thought still nagged Jisung at times; Minho deserved someone whose heart he didn’t have to share. Jisung loved Minho, he wanted this marriage. He knew Minho felt the same. But he was afraid that Minho would regret it. The days and nights before the wedding, this was what had been haunting him — the possibility that years from now, on some fateful day during a particularly bad fight, his feelings for his professors would be (rightfully) thrown in his face.

It was a familiar feeling, a familiar fear; as familiar as the feeling of Minho’s name on his tongue.

"Are you ready to see the groom?" Hyunjin's voice broke through Jisung's thoughts.

Jisung let out another shaky breath as he smoothened down his coat one last time. _You're the one Minho chose_ , he reminded himself, _you're the one he wants to marry._

"Can't wait," he said, smiling.

The ceremony was small but cosy. Minho's family was present as were his friends. Jisung had his college friends, his editor, Jeongin, and of course, Chan and Changbin. Brian, Chan's friend, was the officiant.

Minho, much like Jisung, was wearing a classic black-and-white suit. On his left pocket, there was a small brooch—a blue dove surrounded by a wreath of silver. Jisung had gifted it to him several years ago using his first paycheck. ( _“You make me feel at peace,”_ Jisung had said. _“The silver is fake, of course.”_ ) He and Minho stood at the altar, facing each other and holding on to each other's hands.

For his vows, Jisung had written a poem. “Sunshine” he had titled it. He’d started working on it that same day Minho had brought up getting married. Four years he had worked on it, trying to make it perfect. He’d written the final version down on a neatly folded sheet of paper and handed it to Minho at the altar. He couldn’t bear to read it loud, would break down half-way through if he tried.

Minho had a small smile on his face when he started reading it which was soon replaced with pursed lips and watery eyes. He folded the paper again once he was done, putting it in his breastpocket before squeezing Jisung’s hands. Jisung looked up at him, his face nervous and open.

It was Minho’s turn now.

"I'm not much a poet,” Minho said, “And I'll never know words the way you do. But I tried my best, okay?"

Jisung smiled and nodded, his heart hitching at the tremble in Minho's voice. “Okay.”

"Also, this is a one-time thing. Never going to say this ever again so listen carefully."

Jisung giggled, nodding again. Minho took a long deep breath before starting. The room went quiet as he began.

"It was love at first sight," he said, eyes looking straight into Jisung's. "I don't think I've ever told you this. I saw you walk into that cafe, small leather journal in hand, and I thought—"

Minho paused, breathing in. He closed his eyes before opening them again.

"—I thought you were beautiful,” he said with a sigh. “And for that one second, everything was enough. That was all I needed."

It felt like the world was holding its breath. The entire universe come to a hush. Jisung squeezed Minho's hands.

"I don't know if things have come easy," Minho continued. "I don't know if they're going to get harder. Honestly? I don't know what all this marriage crap is about and I don't think you do either."

Jisung giggled at that, eyes crinkled up into small crescents.

"What I do know is that you matter to me. Being your husband matters to me. Seeing a ring on your hand and knowing that I put it there, it matters to me."

Jisung felt a small lump in his throat.

"I love you. I think this is what I'm trying to say. Everything I cannot express, every poem I cannot write, this is what lies at the heart of it all. And I know you love me too."

Minho pulled Jisung a bit closer as he said, "Even when you doubt it, even when you're scared, I love you and you love me." He took Jisung's hand and held it up, linking it with his. "I know it."

Minho turned to Brian, indicating that he was done. A tiny, steady stream of tears flowed down Jisung's cheeks but he refused to look away from Minho.

"Do you, Lee Minho, take this man to be your husband?" Brian asked.

"I do," Minho said.

"And do you, Han Jisung, take this man to be your husband?"

"I do," Jisung said.

Brian gestured to Hyunjin — who had his own set of tears running down his face — who presented him with the rings. Brian then handed them over to the duo.

"Please put the rings on each other's hand while repeating what I say."

Jisung looked down at the ring, a thin silver band with both their names carved in it. 

"I give you this ring—" Brian started.

"I give you this ring," Minho and Jisung repeated.

"As a daily reminder—"

"As a daily reminder—"

"Of my love for you."

"Of my love for you."

Brian looked at the couple with a small smile on his face. Minho and Jisung looked only at each other.

"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you, husband and husband."

Jisung was still smiling, still crying; his breathing was still shallow and shaky. The fear in his heart however was gone, replaced by a pulsing, raging warmth. It felt like honey, it felt like love. He got onto his tiptoes for the kiss.

* * *

Jisung was in his forties when his professors died. Chan was the first to go, Changbin followed soon after. Chan died of a stroke, Changbin of a broken heart. The official records listed the cause of death as ‘heart attack’ but Jisung knew better. He’d seen the look in Changbin’s eyes, felt the strain in every breath Changbin had taken without Chan by his side.

“I’m sorry,” Jisung had said at the hospital. “I’m so sorry,” he had pleaded.

Changbin had only smiled at him. He’d never seen anything so pitiful.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Changbin had replied, putting one hand over Jisung's. That's when he had known. “I’m really sorry, Han.”

Changbin had died a week later. Jisung hadn't even been surprised. In their last phonecall, a mere day before his death, Changbin had told Jisung something he would never forget.

_"I don't think I would have loved poetry as much if I hadn't known the two of you,"_ he'd said over the phone. _"Wouldn't have understood half the things those poets talk about if it weren't for you."_

_"Thanks,"_ Jisung had said, the words cold and limp on his tongue. _"Thank you."_

Changbin's laughter had been light and easy. _"Silly boy. You don't thank people for loving you."_

At the funeral, Jisung decided he'd have to disagree with the old man. He had never felt deserving, never thought himself worthy of the love he had in his life. Whether it was Chan or Changbin or Minho, he couldn't help but feel like a rough boy with grubby hands, trying to hold a blinding light between his palms.

"You okay?"

Jisung turned to look at Minho as he walked towards him. He gave him a slight nod before turning back and looking at Changbin’s gravestone again.

"You know," Jisung spoke, his voice just above a whisper. "They never did have children."

"I know." Minho sounded kind; he always sounded kind.

"Chan told me they never felt like he was missing out on something. That I made up for it."

Minho only looked at him, his eyes soft and clear.

He couldn't help it any longer; he let himself lean on Minho's shoulder. He felt Minho's hand on the side of his head, gently patting him as if he would break.

"I'll never forget them."

"You won't."

"They loved me."

"They did."

Jisung spent the rest of his life trying to do right by Minho, the only blinding light he still held in his hands.

* * *

Jisung stopped writing after Changbin's death. He spent a comfortable life with Minho, the two of them moving far away into the countryside after their retirement. They spent the rest of their days together, happy and in love. 

When Minho died, Jisung picked his pen up again for the first time in decades. He did not know what he wanted to say, if he even had anything left worth saying. He just knew he needed to write.

 _Love has never been a stranger to me_ , he began.

_I have known it in since the day I was born, shaped like the hands of my father holding me, the warmth of my mother's lips on my cheeks. Their love was the first; maybe that’s why it did not last._

_I have known love in other shapes and forms: a pager number scribbled on the palm of my hand, a door that would open before I even knocked, the light of the sun reflecting off my left hand._

_Perhaps this is who I was always meant to be. A fool in love, besottedly in love, chasing after people who only ever stood still._

_They say that writers are cursed; we bear the burden of trying, this uncontainable need to speak out loud the words that make us tremble. I am no stranger to trembling._

_Maybe there is more to life than this. Maybe there is more to life than trying to do what millions before me have failed — to explain that being touched by them made sense to me. Maybe there is more to life than the feeling of my name on their tongue, how snugly the letters fit between their teeth._

_I have always been a simple man, I have never felt the need for more. Them and me. Me and him. Dream after dream of peach blossoms and snow white turtle doves._

_Love, you have never been a stranger to me. Won't you come back? Won't you let me dream?_

_A thousand lives, I would be willing to live, just for a chance at loving you again._

Jisung would die at the age of 85, three years longer than Minho. He would die alone in an empty house; this would be the last thing he ever wrote in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe Minho an apology for this. I'm really sorry, Minho. Someday, I'll make it up to you.


	3. The Third Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks at Changbin and thinks about all the times they sat down to compare lyrics, only to read between the lines and file away stuff for later, asking and prodding about things they’d only mentioned in their writing.
> 
> He looks at Chan and thinks about every session in the studio where Chan has pushed him, asking for more than he thinks he can give; he thinks about the smile on Chan’s face whenever he manages to give him what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author assumes 3racha's studio has a couch. Why? Because I can.

Jisung was 14 when he first met Chan. He'd seen him around, mostly in the form of a black shadow passing by the corner of his eye. He’d heard about him: the trainee from Australia, the one who knew how to produce.

"Hi, my name's Chan."

His hair was curly, Jisung noted. Brown and curly, it made him want to touch it. He bowed, hands firmly stuck to his sides.

“I’m Jisung, the new trainee. I got in through rapping.”

Chan’s eyes were piercing but not unkind. The trainees had to team up for this month’s evaluation and to Jisung’s surprise, Chan had reached out to him.

“I know,” Chan said. “I’ve heard great things.”

Jisung stood a little taller, a smile making its way onto his face. “You would have.”

Chan raised an eyebrow before laughing. Light and pleasant, Jisung felt like chasing after it.

“Hyung,” Jisung hated sounding young, hated the greenness that bled through all his posturing. “Is it true that you make your own songs?”

“I don’t know if they’re any good but yeah!” Something about Chan made him hate it a bit less. “Wanna hear some of them?”

Jisung nodded. They were still in practice room #3, the two of them staying back after their daily dance class. Chan walked over to the side where a big black backpack lay on the floor. Jisung had seen him carry it around, had heard that he never went anywhere without it.

“You can sit with me,” said Chan, taking out a laptop and sitting on the floor cross-legged. Jisung quickly followed suit.

They spent the rest of the evening clicking through the tracks on Chan’s laptop. With each track, something inside Jisung’s chest grew. He could feel it like a whirlwind, like a whirlpool, pulling his entire body inward. He begged it to calm down.

“I don’t usually show other people this.” It felt like a confession, the words fluttering away as he tried to hold on to them. “Especially if they’re strangers.”

“Why are you showing me then?” Jisung put his hand over his chest as casually as he could. _Please stop._

Chan shrugged. Somehow, Jisung thought, that made it worse. “I just feel like I can show you. You have that look in your eyes.”

Jisung gulped. “What kind of look?”

Chan smiled at him and that was when Jisung knew there was no point in pleading.

“The kind that tells me you dream the same way I do.”

* * *

It was Chan’s birthday — or at least it _had been_ Chan’s birthday, seeing how it was now October 4, 12:01 AM. Jisung was furious.

He’d spent the better half of the last one week getting things ready for Chan’s birthday. He’d gotten a cake, he’d gotten some streamers, he’d bought loads of junk food — he knew it wasn’t much but he’d put in more effort than you’d think. This would be his first birthday with Chan, he’d wanted to make it count. Right now, he sat alone on Chan’s bunk bed, his phone thrown away to the side. _So much for that,_ he thought.

He got down from Chan’s bed and made his way out of the dorms. He left the cake and the streamers behind but the huge bag of snacks, he carried with him. He didn’t exactly have a plan in mind as he made his way to the studio Chan usually worked in; he just knew he’d had enough.

He knocked on the door to the studio. When it opened, Chan stood at the other end, dark circles under his eyes. Jisung felt himself deflate.

“Hyung,” he started, “it’s your birthday.”

“Oh,” Chan said, his eyes widening just the slightest. “I didn’t realise.”

Jisung had been right. He bit his lip as his eyes started to sting. He let himself in and sat down on the couch, dropping the bag of snacks on the floor.

“Just eat,” he said. He put his head in his hands and sighed. This whole thing was giving him a headache.

Chan moved his chair and sat in front of him. He reached into the bag and pulled out some chips, looking wary of Jisung all the while.

“Hyung.”

“Yes?”

“You missed your birthday.”

Chan shrugged. Jisung really wished he’d stop doing that. “It’s not that big of a deal, Sung. You don’t have to feel bad.”

“This isn’t about me,” Jisung spoke through gritted teeth. “This is about you.”

Chan didn’t say anything so Jisung continued. “It’s your birthday, hyung. So why—why are you all alone?” He’d been getting more and more choked up with each word that he said and at the end, he broke down completely, curling in on himself and crying.

Immediately, Chan was beside him, hugging him and patting him on the head. “Idiot, why are you crying?” Chan’s voice sounded suspiciously wet. “This isn’t something to cry over, I said I’m okay with it.”

“Yeah, well I’m not.” Jisung hiccupped after every other word. “You’re always alone, always dealing with things on your own. Aren’t we friends?” Jisung hated how young he sounded whenever he was with Chan. “I know I’m just a kid but there’s got to be something I can do. At the very least, I can listen.”

He pulled away from Chan a little, just enough to look him in the eye—he was right, Chan had started crying too.

“You’re not alone.” Jisung said, hesitantly holding Chan’s hand. “Will you please stop acting like you are?”

Chan squeezed Jisung’s hand and looked down, crying more freely now. Jisung was the one to comfort him this time, rubbing circles on his back, hoping it could soothe some of the sobs away.

They stayed in the studio for the rest of the night but they didn’t get any work done. Instead, they watched a few movies and cuddled; Jisung even gave Chan a foot massage. The bag of junk food Jisung had brought over was empty by the end of it, crumpled to the side as the two boys fell asleep on the couch, tangled to such an extent that you couldn’t tell where one boy ended and the other boy began.

* * *

A year later, Jisung met Changbin. It was a sunny day, a hot day, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin. He wore something light—a cotton tee and some shorts—before making his way to dance class again.

“New trainee—”

“Raps real good—”

“Scary—”

The entire room was abuzz. Jisung frowned as he sat next to Chan and asked him what all the chatter was about.

“New guy joined today. They say he can rap.” He looked at Jisung like it was a challenge. “What do you think?”

Jisung shrugged but it came off more awkward than he intended. “What’s there to think? He’s not even here yet.”

Chan smirked; Jisung wanted to smack it off his lips. Just then, the room went unusually quiet. Just enough buzz for it to not feel empty, not enough noise for it to feel real.

The new guy was here.

“Well, let’s see if he gives us something to think about, huh?” It almost sounded like it was a game to Chan. Jisung, as always, was more than willing to play.

Dance class went the way it always did. The trainees danced and tripped and fumbled until they were all down on the floor, clothes soaked through with sweat. Unlike the usual dance class though, nobody rushed to leave and everyone stayed back.

Unspoken rule: new trainees must show their skills on the spot.

New guy walked into the centre of the room. Something in his eyes made Jisung speak up.

“Rap battle. You and me.” All the trainees were looking at him now. “What do you say?” Jisung hoped his mouth was shaped somewhat close to a smirk.

The boy stared at him, looking him up and down. Jisung willed himself not to shake under the weight of his gaze.

“I don’t see why not.”

* * *

Once all the other trainees left, the three of them got to know each other— names, birth years, the usual stuff. New guy’s name, Jisung learned, was Changbin. He was 16, a year older than Jisung, two years younger than Chan. He walked around with one hand in his pocket and a snapback on his head—this, Jisung learned on his own. Something about it set alarms off in Jisung’s mind. _Shut up_ , he said to himself, _please just shut up._

Soon enough, Chan showed Changbin the songs on his laptop too. Jisung wasn’t jealous, he really wasn’t. He’d be lying if he said that the sight of the two boys huddled over Chan’s laptop didn’t do something to him, if he denied the way it made his head swim—but that wasn’t jealousy. That was something else, something Jisung had no plans of unpacking at the moment. For now he was happy to just sit with them (and if he often found himself trying to occupy the space in between then, well, that was nobody’s business).

* * *

Changbin wasn’t in the habit of talking about his feelings—Jisung had noticed this. This is not to say that Changbin was a pushover; he made it very clear what he was and was not willing to do and was overall quite honest about his opinions. But expressive did not necessarily mean open; Jisung of all people knew this.

So yes, Changbin was loud and whiny and in-your-face but it felt very much on purpose. All the noise was for his own sake—he was trying to drown something out. What was that ‘something’? For the longest time, Jisung had no idea and neither did Chan.

One day, Jisung found out. It had been a particularly gruelling dance class and Jisung had stayed back to help Changbin with a sequence of moves he just couldn’t seem to get right. They’d been at it for about an hour and a half.

“I’m sorry,” Changbin said and the defeat in his voice made Jisung wince.

“Hyung, it’s fine. Everyone gets stuck at some point.” Jisung hoped he sounded convincing enough. “Besides, you’ve only been here a few months.”

Changbin sighed and his shoulders drooped. He sat down on the floor and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Jisung sat next to him and did much the same, except he stared at Changbin’s reflection too. He tried not to think too much about how small Changbin looked right now, his usual larger-than-life personality shrunken down to a grubby little shadow.

“I’m scared,” Changbin confessed.

Jisung turned to look at him. “Scared of what?”

Changbin paused, as if to think it over. “Everything, I guess. There’s so much I have to do, so much I want to achieve. What if—”

At this point, Changbin stopped and looked down at his hands. Jisung waited, not saying a word.

“What if I get it all wrong? What if I’m not good enough? What if I get some things right, only to ruin it all in the end?”

Jisung stayed silent; he knew Changbin wasn’t done.

“Sometimes I just get into my own head. I feel like I’m better off not letting something happen just so I don’t have to deal with all the what-if’s that come with it.” Changbin scoffed to himself. “I’m just a selfish asshole. All this nice stuff, these nice people...I don’t deserve any of it.”

Jisung lightly pushed Changbin’s shoulder with his own. “Bullshit. I think we’re all scared. I mean, we’re trying to become celebrities, hit big and everything. Of course we’d be scared.” He wished Changbin would look at him. “Channie hyung always says that we’re just kids trying to be something more.”

“Yeah, well maybe I’m sick of trying. Maybe I just want to be more right now.”

“Hyung.”

“Mm?”

“Look at me.” Finally, Changbin looked at him. Jisung wondered if it’d be too much to hold his hand but decided to throw all caution to the wind. “You’re way more than whatever you think yourself to be.”

Changbin rolled his eyes and tried to pull his hand back.

“No, listen,” Jisung said, taking Changbin’s hand and putting it on his chest this time, right over his heart. He looked straight into Changbin’s eyes and tried his best not to blink. “You are the coolest person I know. I mean it.”

For a short while, Changbin didn’t say anything. He just looked at Jisung, eyes round enough to rival an owl’s. Then, he started laughing.

“The—I’m being serious!”

Changbin laughed a bit more before responding. “I’m sorry, Jisung. I know you are. I just—Man, it really can be as simple as that, huh?”

“Simple? _Simple?_ Do you have any idea how many people I know? This took complex calculation, you thankless monster.”

Changbin beamed at him; everything was right again. “Thanks, kid.”

“Not a kid.”

“Pfft, yeah okay, big guy.” The smile on Changbin’s face was soft and earned. “But really, thank you.”  
Jisung smiled back before shaking his head. “No worries. So, back to dancing?”

* * *

On some random Sunday, a year after Changbin had joined the company, Jisung woke up on the couch of their studio. The first thing he processed was the sound of Changbin rapping—familiar but unusual given the context. He looked around, wrapped up in a blanket he didn’t recognise as his own.

“Hyung?”

“Jisung, you’re awake!” Chan’s voice was way too bright for what felt like ass o’ clock in the morning.

Jisung curled back into himself, mumbling into his pillow. “What time is it?

“6 am!”—Seriously, what the hell is he so happy for?—“Changbin, come out. Jisung’s awake!”

“Why are you both awake?” Jisung groaned. “And why are we still in the studio?”

He heard a small thud in front of him and opened his eyes to Changbin making himself comfortable on the floor, leaning back to rest his head on Jisung’s tummy. He turned to look at Jisung, threading his fingers through Jisung’s hair.

“Sleep well, kiddo?”

“I’m not a kid.” The complaint felt half-hearted even to him.

Changbin smiled, ruffling his hair even more. “Okay, big guy. Did you sleep well?”

Jisung nodded before yawning and stretching his entire body. He heard Chan chuckle and it made him feel a bit raw, a bit naked. Before long, Chan was sitting on the floor too, his head competing for space on Jisung’s tummy. They stayed like that for quite some time, Chan’s soft humming filling in the silence. Jisung wondered if it was possible to hear a person’s heartbeat through their stomach. He hoped the answer was ‘no’.

After some time, Jisung’s attention drifted to the blanket he had around him. It was warm, blue, and fluffy. It even smelled nice—in fact, it smelled a lot like Changbin.

This realization didn’t bode well for multiple reasons: 1. Apparently, Jisung knew what Changbin smelled like; 2. To his dismay, Changbin didn’t smell bad—he smelled like shampoo and too-strong deodorant; 3. To his horror, Changbin smelled like home.

Jisung took a deep breath in and tried not to get swept away. A few deep breaths later, he found his words.

“But seriously, why are we still here? Shouldn’t you have gone home?”

Chan shrugged. “You fell asleep and we didn’t wanna wake you up.”

Jisung frowned at Chan. “So don’t wake me up. Just go home.”

Quicker than he could react, Changbin turned and flicked him on the forehead.

“Ow!”

“Idiot. We weren’t going to just leave you here.”

Jisung couldn’t believe he was being treated like the idiot here. “You’re acting like I’d die or something.”

Changbin looked down at the ground, eyes focused, brows pinched. Chan smiled as he looked at them.

“You wouldn’t die,” Changbin reasoned, “but it wouldn’t feel right.”

Chan nodded like it was common knowledge. “Like abandoning a puppy.”

“Oh so I’m a puppy now?”

“Shut up.” Chan’s giggles softened the impact of his words. “Just wake up properly so we can all go home.”

The blanket under his fingers raised another doubt in Jisung’s mind.

“Where did the two of you sleep?” There definitely wasn’t enough space on the couch.

Chan and Changbin exchanged glances before answering. Not a good sign.

“We didn’t?” Chan said, voice a bit more timid now. “We figured you’d wake up in a few hours anyway so—”

“Yeah,” Changbin interjected. “Thought we might as well get some work done until then.”

Guilt seeped into Jisung’s heart in cold, tiny streams. With it came something that left him feeling paralysed—the quiet realization that Chan and Changbin were here to stay.

“I’ll get us breakfast.” Jisung clearly wasn’t thinking this through. It was barely 6:30 in the morning.

“Okay,” Chan said, accepting whatever it was that he was offering.

“Okay,” Changbin said, reaching out to pat him on the head.

For the first time in his short, teenage life, Jisung felt things slot into place.

* * *

Jisung liked to keep things simple. He tried his best not to overthink stuff and didn’t ask questions that he knew could not be answered. But lately, he found himself wondering—when does a touch start to mean something, when does a look turn into a sign, where does one draw the line between friendship and something more?

He wondered when exactly it began. When did Chan’s eyes start searching for Changbin in every room that he entered? When did Changbin’s feet start leading him to Chan, as if pulled in by a different kind of gravity? Jisung tried to look away, he tried not to notice. As always, like with most things related to Changbin and Chan, Jisung failed to stop.

One night, it all fell apart.

The three of them were working on a song and things were going as usual. That is to say, Chan was giggling over something Changbin had said while Jisung tried to concentrate on his lyrics.

“You know, you don’t have to hide it,” Jisung said, venom in his eyes, his mouth, his tongue. “You don’t have to tiptoe around me, I’m not stupid.”

Chan and Changbin turned around in tandem. It only angered him more.

“What do you mean?” Changbin asked, his tone too casual to be real.

“Don’t make me laugh,it’s as clear as day.” Jisung didn’t know why he was being so bitter. “You like each other! Congratulations. Whoop-de-fucking-do.”

There was a small pause before Chan asked, “And how do you feel about this?” There was something in his voice that Jisung couldn’t put a finger on. “Do you not care?”

Jisung scoffed. “You think the world revolves around you. I couldn’t give a single shit. Fuck him on the couch for all I care.”

“Jisung—”

“Oh wait! You’ve probably already done that.” He could feel his voice get louder.

“Jisung—”

“Did you really think I didn’t know? That I wouldn’t find out?” Jisung begged himself to stop. “We stay in this studio almost all day. I am constantly! Constantly, around the two of you!”

“Jisung.”

“What!”

“You’re crying.”

At that moment, Jisung decided he hated himself. He hated the hurt and concern in Chan’s eyes, hated that even after everything he’d said, Changbin was still reaching out for him.

“Han-ah,” Changbin called, his voice trembling just the slightest little bit. “Do you hate us now?”

Jisung turned away; he refused to let them see him cry. Chan and Changbin moved closer but still couldn’t seem to touch him.

“Do you hate us? Do we disgust you?” Changbin did not stop pushing. “Han, I need you to be honest.”

For a long, stretched out moment, Jisung said nothing. He let the questions rot in the space between them. Then, in slow motion, he steeled his heart and let it all go.

“I love you.” He had always hated hearing the truth. “The both of you. I—” He took a quick, shallow breath in. “—have loved you two for longer than I care to remember. I’m sorry it had to be like this.”

 _This is it_ , Jisung thought. Finally, he’d put an end to it all. He closed his eyes and welcomed it. For a few seconds, there was nothing. Then, he felt someone wrap their arms around him, trembling all the while. He opened his eyes to find himself being held by Changbin. Soon enough, Chan showed up beside them, sniffling as he tried to hug them both.

“You’re such an idiot.” Chan said, quite decisively.

Jisung felt like his entire world was off-kilter. “What?”

As Changbin sobbed into Jisung’s neck, Chan took it upon himself to explain.

“You’re right, we like each other. But we like you too. We were still in the process of figuring it all out. How to bring it up with you, if we should bring it up at all.”

“What?”

This time, Changbin hit him weakly on the shoulder. He barely even felt it.

“Asshole,” Changbin said, unconvincingly. “We like you. God knows why.”

Jisung kept looking between the two boys, as if waiting for them to reveal that this was some elaborate prank. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, we’re serious, Han. God, I’m in love with an idiot.”

Jisung looked at Changbin, really looked at him now. Changbin looked right back. Naturally, Jisung had to kiss him—so he did.

It was short, their lips touching for barely a second before Jisung pulled back, eyes as round as Changbin’s.

“Woah,” Chan said.

“Woah,” Changbin concurred.

A bit sheepish, a bit shy, Jisung grinned. “You like me.”

They smiled at him. Chan ruffled his hair and said, “We do.”

* * *

Everything, Jisung thinks, has led to this. They’ve been on V-Live for about twenty minutes now—Chan and Changbin and him—and Chan is talking to the camera while fiddling around with Jisung’s hand. They’re supposed to be spoiling a few tracks from the upcoming album but, as always, they managed to squeeze in a little appreciation, taking turns to compliment each other until all their ears turned red and hot.

Jisung stays quiet for most of the livestream, only speaking in sprints and bursts. Mostly, he thinks about Chan and Changbin, and how far the three of them have come since the day they all first met.

He looks at Changbin and thinks about all the times they sat down to compare lyrics, only to read between the lines and file away stuff for later, asking and prodding about things they’d only mentioned in their writing. He thinks about how Changbin is still the coolest person he knows and how he doesn’t think that’s going to change any time soon.

He looks at Chan and thinks about every session in the studio where Chan has pushed him, asking for more than he thinks he can give; he thinks about the smile on Chan’s face whenever he manages to give him what he wants. He thinks about the first time Chan called him his weapon, the way it had gotten his blood racing, the only high he would ever decide to chase.

After they’re done with the livestream, the three of them get back to the studio. They talk about their days, where they’ve been and what they did. Their world has long expanded beyond just the three of them. But whenever it’s like this, whenever it’s just them in their studio—it’s like they’re trainees again.

Chan takes Jisung’s hand again, holding it properly this time. Touches like this should feel casual—child’s play at this point—but whenever Chan and Changbin touch him, he still feels a little jolt; a warmth like glowing embers, pulsates and spreads through his entire body. The way Chan and Changbin look at him, he knows they feel the same.

Unlike when they’d first started dating, there’s no urgency in the air. No pointed stares at each other’s lips, no fumbling around with belt buckles. Just easy, languid kissing punctuated with a little nip every now and then. The door to the studio is locked and no longer incites the same anxiousness it once did. They laugh as they kiss, sometimes making conversation in between.

Somewhere in between, Changbin’s stomach grumbles. The three of them laugh and decide to order in—fried chicken and three bottles of coke. They continue to talk, continue to laugh, discuss everything from new song ideas to Chan’s newfound ‘talent’ in barking. As they pack up and make their way back to the dorms, Changbin makes a lame joke about princesses and twirls Jisung around. All three of them giggle. Once they’re back at the dorms, they brush their teeth in the bathroom sink, threatening to get toothpaste on each other’s shirts all the while.

Disgusting as it may sound, Jisung thinks to himself—this is where he's meant to be. In every universe that might exist, this is the only truth: the three of them belonged together, three parts of the same heartbeat. Finally, he is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do watch this wonderful [video](https://drive.google.com/file/d/11iPSh2zD804XIe1Z-xhVEy7Z33C7uYbA/view?usp=sharing) that my artist made as a companion to this fic. It is so beautiful and I cannot explain how happy and grateful I am to have such a sweet and attentive artist.
> 
> The change in tense at the end is intentional. Thought I'd try something, hopefully it didn't work out too bad? Anyway, thank you for reading this. The idea of the constancy of love is very important to me and I hope I was able to do at least Some sort of justice to Jisung throughout each of his lives.
> 
> This is my first longfic and I've tried to edit it as best I could so please be kind >< I had brain worms for a few months so the third life is a bit more rushed than I'd like but I tried my best and I hope it shows. You can find me on twitter @starryacha. Feel free to scream at me there!! Also, 3racha soulmates idc idc.


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